She gazed at him in wonder. His apple-blossom cheeks wore a rosier glow than usual. He seized a log from the box, threw it on the blaze that illumined their faces, grasped the poker, and leaning forward in his chair let it grow hot as he held it to the flames. His glasses fell off, dangling from the cord; and as he adjusted them, he caught the curious, half-amused smile on Ruth’s attentive face. He gave the fire a sharp raking and addressed her, gazing into the leaping flames.
“I was wondering why, after all, you could not be happy as my wife.”
A numbness as of death overspread her.
“I think I could make you happy, Ruth.”
In the pregnant silence that followed he looked up, and meeting her sad, reproachful eyes, laid down the poker softly but resolutely; there was method in the action.
“In fact, I know I could make you happy.”
“Louis, have you forgotten?” she cried in sharp pain.
“I have forgotten nothing,” he replied incisively. “Listen to me, Ruth. It is because I remember that I ask you. Give me the right to care for you, and you will be happier than you can ever be in these circumstances.”
“You do not know what you ask, Louis. Even if I could, you would never be satisfied.”
“Try me, Ruth,” he entreated.